


Hotspot

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Ficlet, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-04
Updated: 2015-07-04
Packaged: 2018-04-07 13:38:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4265214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gandalf brings the game of Twister to Imladris and Mirkwood’s delegation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hotspot

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Fill for lunarlumina’s “Gandalf introducing the concept of Twister, a game of Men, to elves. It could be done in a great gathering or after a council” prompt on [my tumblr](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Hobbit or The Lord of the Rings or Twister or any of their contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

It’s good to get a moment away again. As much as hospitality is a part of Elrond’s life, certain guests can be... very trying. And it’s nice to sit on the balcony and simply listen to the gentle call of the birds, smell the blooming flowers, and feel Lindir’s soft fingers in his hair. They share a bench, half facing one another. Lindir is a particularly beautiful sight silhouetted against the pink blossoms behind him, and his features are as gentle and fair as they can be. He’s early again, as he so often is, and he pays Elrond nothing but his full attention, the intricate braid forming amidst his fingers worthy of any king. 

Bubbling laughter breaks their silence, carried on the wind. Even far below as it is, Elrond recognizes the chiming voice of his daughter, and he turns slightly towards the white railing, careful not to tug his hair out of Lindir’s hands. There’s no one on the platform directly below them, but Imladris has many different layers, and clearly Arwen is enjoying herself somewhere not too far away. On the off-chance Lindir has seen more of her today, Elrond muses, “I wonder what that was.”

“Likely Mithrandir’s ‘game,’ my lord,” Lindir answers. Elrond lifts one eyebrow, and upon seeing it, Lindir elaborates, “I came across him this morning, introducing a strange invention to my lords Elladan, Elrohir, Arwen, and Prince Legolas. He invited me to play and explained a little.”

“But you did not play,” Elrond concludes, curious for the nature of this ‘game,’ but not for Lindir’s behaviour, which he can guess well enough. Still, he asks, “Why?”

Lindir’s cheeks stain a light pink, and he deliberately keeps his eyes lowered. He replies simply, “I was already scheduled to meet with you, my lord.”

Elrond sighs. It’s so very like Lindir to ignore the world for him, though he’s never wished to cage his beautiful attendant. He puts a hand over Lindir’s busy fingers, stilling them, and Lindir tentatively glances up at him. Softly, so that it won’t be taken as scolding, Elrond tells him, “Such appointments need not be kept when we having gatherings such as this.” Parties from the Greenwood are rare and merit special allowances for the mingling of their people, though Elrond knows that Lindir, for all his worship of his own lord, is not particularly fond of King Thranduil—somewhat difficult and a strain on a certain aspect of the kitchens as he is.

Lindir murmurs quietly, “I... believed I would more enjoy your company, my lord.” Elrond doesn’t doubt the sincerity of that for a minute. But Lindir sees him regularly, and there are other elves—his own age—that he doesn’t spend nearly enough time with. So Elrond removes Lindir’s hand from his hair and deftly undoes the half-tied braid swept over his shoulder. Lindir watches it, appearing torn. Elrond knows Lindir takes pride in seeing his handiwork in his lord’s hair, but untouched locks are also a blank canvas: an opportunity for him to weave them anew. 

Elrond tells him, “We will finish this another time.” Then he slips off the bench, nodding for Lindir to follow.

Lindir bows his head in acceptance and stands, not needing to be told where to guide Elrond. He steps out in front, and Elrond follows him back inside, under the cool shade and wooden floors, around to stone bridges and down to a grassy platform. It’s in one of the open gardens that they find the others, arranged just as Lindir recounted, except that King Thranduil is also present, though sitting instead of playing. He and Gandalf are in some of the stone chairs placed in a circle around the clearing, Thranduil with a table pulled up beside him. His usual wine glass is in his hand, the other set of fingers holding a painted wooden board in his lap. 

Another board, though this made of fabric, is stretched across the grass. It’s painted in an intricate pattern of different coloured dots, the bright hues of which instantly telling Elrond which race made this configuration. Though many idle inventions can be attributed to dwarves, such unearthly colour choices denote Men. All three of his children are stretched out along it, one hand and one foot each on a separate dot, with Legolas twisted between Elladan and Elrohir. They seem far more precariously placed than Arwen, who has managed to retain a bubble of personal space. 

Before Elrond can greet everyone, Thranduil flicks a dial on his board that spins in a fast circle around four sectioned off colours, matching those on the fabric mat. It lands on blue, and Thranduil swirls his wine around his glass before calling accordingly, “Blue.” Then he takes another sip, and their children all shift, reaching around one another to move at least one limb to a blue circle. The rules of the game are easy enough follow. 

Arwen is the only one to say, “Hello, Ada,” as Elrond moves to take a seat next to Thranduil along a metal bench. He nods back to her, but the others are too preoccupied to spare a look at him. Although Elladan and Elrohir are excellent warriors in prime physical condition, the game has contorted them into such strange patterns that staying upright must require their full attention. Across Thranduil, Gandalf tells him, “It is called ‘Twister.’ I acquired several editions in Rohan and offered the first to Lady Galadriel, who seemed to find much joy in playing it with me. I thought of two other Elven lords who might enjoy the same.”

“King,” Thranduil casually corrects, flicking the dial again and announcing, “Green.” His eyes sharpen as Legolas tries to shift one leg around Elladan’s, and for a moment, Elrond wants to move and steady Legolas if only to keep him safe from his father’s wrath. Elrond wouldn’t put it past Thranduil to take this clearly harmless game far more intensely than it merits. 

Harder still to picture is the regal lady Galadriel sprawled out on the floor like a child, though if anyone can bring her to such antics, it’s Mithrandir. He suggests to both of them, “You are quite welcome to play.” Then he fishes a long pipe out of his robes. It’s a wonder he wasn’t blowing smoke rings already. Thranduil announces another colour.

Elrond glances aside, where Lindir is standing next to him. He bids in a near whisper, “Lindir,” and Lindir lowers to sit beside him, subtly and silently. Elrond has had many arguments with Thranduil before on the placing of servants, but he prefers his beloved attendant to be at his side wherever possible, and there is no reason for formalities in a garden filled with idle play. Lindir has his eyes on the smattering of young lords entangled together, Arwen still impressively out of the fray. It would have been nice for Lindir to have played with them, all being of a similar age, but as it appears too late for that and Lindir will likely not join without his lord, Elrond decides aloud, “Perhaps we shall try when our children are finished.”

Instantly, Thranduil’s head turns to face him, eyes blazing with the familiar spark of competition. Like Galadriel, it’s difficult to picture him in such undignified positions, but he is also one to enjoy a good sport, and he says evenly, “I would welcome a worthy opponent.”

“It is not a game for two alone,” Gandalf chuckles. 

“Lindir will join us,” Elrond calmly answers, though Thranduil snorts.

He announces, “Yellow,” before insisting, “We will have no need of servants. If Mithrandir will entertain the Lady Galadriel, I am sure he will extend us the same courtesy.”

“Oh, no,” Gandalf interjects. “As much fun as I had, I am afraid I may have pulled my hip out, and the poor thing is still healing, despite the Lady’s best attentions.” There’s a subtle wink in his eyes, as though there’s more to the story, but as there’s _always_ more with wizards, Elrond chooses not to ask. 

Thranduil’s already moved on, and he ordains, “Then I will have a servant of my own so Imladris is not given another advantage.” Over his shoulder, he calls, “Feren, fetch Tauriel.” The brown-haired elf standing watch over by the paving stones nods and hurries off. Why Feren wasn’t simply invited to play, Elrond already knows: Tauriel is Thranduil’s swiftest, most talented elf, and he will likely play to win. Elrond makes no such efforts of his own. He isn’t so competitive, and he isn’t particularly worried over who will ‘win’; he simply wants Lindir to enjoy the game. 

From the pile of engaged elves, Legolas calls a weak, “Ada,” and Thranduil flicks the dial again. He doesn’t get to call his colour; Legolas has evidently reached his limit. One of his legs is fully twisted backwards, the other stuck between Elladan’s, one arm tucked between Elrohir’s thighs and the other arm stretched to its limit to keep his index and forefinger on a red circle. It all must be too much for him, because he collapses suddenly with a gasp, his weight dragging Elrohir down with him. That puts Elladan off balance, and he only holds up a few seconds longer than his brother. The three of them land in a large pile, groaning under each other’s bodies, and Arwen leaps up suddenly, crying a happy, “Yes!” Though the rules were never explained to Elrond, he can tell that the game is won.

Mainly to indulge his darling daughter, Elrond slowly claps his hands together, to Arwen’s wide smile and pseudo curtsey. Elladan and Elrohir are trying to detangle enough to get up, Legolas trapped helplessly beneath them. When Elrond glances aside, he isn’t surprised to see the cold fury behind Thranduil’s stately features. He nearly snarls, “The numbers were quite unfair.” None of the others answer, and when Elladan and Elrohir are clear, Arwen comes in to help Legolas up and brush him off. 

Tauriel then arrives, plainly having run. Her fiery hair is still in motion as she bows to Thranduil, announcing, “I am here, my lord.”

Thranduil gestures to the game, shooing their children off. Then he hands the board to Mithrandir and places his wine on the little stand next to his chair, his floral crown following. His outer robes he slowly sheds, down to the tight, form-fitting silver gossamer beneath. Elrond has to stifle his amusement at such preparations, though he does remove his and Lindir’s circlets.

Thranduil and Tauriel are already poised to move when Elrond rises off the bench, taking Lindir’s hand.


End file.
